Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. " "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. "Then I advise you to look sharply after him, Mr. “I’ll buy a new one. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers.
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